


Keepin' It Hush Hush

by FujinoLover



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Angie is Alex Udinov, F/F, but not really, kinda crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy was a soldier turned agent whereas Angie was a spy, an assassin, and everything in between. She was just better at concealing the fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keepin' It Hush Hush

 

Angie figured Peggy out the moment she stepped into the automat. Having worked there for half a year and being a keen observer that she was, it took mere seconds of that first impression to give Peggy away. It was the measured steps, the way she swept a glance over the rest of the automat patrons, and the booth she chose—facing the door and close to where the backdoor exit lay, but not enough for anyone needing to take a leak to linger behind her back. Perfectly pinned curls and red-painted lips trying to pass as another broad in the crowd, but those were not fooling anyone. Well, at least not Angie Martinelli. 

 

Mysterious lady, by all luck, was sitting on Angie’s section. When the woman asked for tea, she could not stop the thrill rushing down her spine from hearing the thick accent wrapping the words. Her trademark wit replaced by an almost shy smile. It was the fastest walk she had ever made to the counter, switching the half filled pot of coffee with one of tea. The cook gave her a dirty look as she rinsed the teapot with boiled water, refilling it, then arranged the teabag and cream on the same tray. She did not wish to disappoint a prospective regular, but also did not want to overdo the service by adding slices of lemon.

 

“Here is your tea,” she paused for a split second. A deliberate prompt for a name, yet not seemed as desperate. “English.” She ended it with a cheeky grin.

 

A smile curled the woman’s lips upwards. “Peggy Carter.” Her eyes lingered on Angie’s chest, to where her nametag was, unfortunately. “Angie.”

 

Angie’s heart lurched in a swoon just a little under where her nametag was. “ _English_.”

 

The woman—Peggy did not comment. A reserved but polite smile returned the nickname. Angie might have giggled at it harder than socially acceptable to, earning herself an amused quirk of a brow from Peggy and nothing more. It felt like they were playing secret agents with secret codenames only they knew of. Angie’s would be _Russian_ and she was sure Peggy would not be as thrilled to learn about that part of her.

 

(She reconsidered the nickname after looking across the counter she was wiping, to the booth Peggy was occupying. Cheeks bloated while she munched on whatever pastry she had gotten for herself and Angie snorted a very unladylike laugh. She should have named her as Chipmunk.) 

 

* * *

 

Peggy chose to be a soldier, but Angie was raised as one. She was born by the name Alexandra Udinov during the Interwar period. The world might be at peace during those precious years, but the war never stopped in Russia. The end of the First World War brought the fall of the Russian Empire. The new government stood on shaky legs and within years, the civil war broke. Her parents, suspected being traitors, chose to flee the country. They did not make it, but she did.

 

She was part of the white émigré, making it to the United Kingdom then transferred to United States, where a youth organization called Division took custody of her. It was where she met her ‘family’. She was raised to stay true to her heritage. She was raised with the thought of one day going back to Russia in mind. She was raised as a spy for the U.S. government.

 

Alexandra, like the last Tsarina, her mentor Michael, used to tease her. He continued to call her ‘little Alex’, until she managed to knock him out in a training session one winter. She was eleven and a half, then. Alex was sixteen when the Second World War broke and she had been living for a year in Moscow. She made it through the war without getting caught and came back alive to her adopted country. And just like Peggy, she continued to work after war while maintaining a low key daily job and plain heart-on-sleeves aspiring actress personality.

 

Division was simply the darker shade of the government. They had no fancy badge to flash or lawful suspect questioning procedure to follow through. They had secret messages hidden in the scripts or flyers or newspapers’ ads only their agents had the key to decipher. They had kill order. It was time for Cold War, with intelligences as the currency and some people just knew too much. As far as the government concerned, Division did not exist and Alexandra Udinov had never stepped a foot on United States.

 

Angela Martinelli was the name she chose. She was the carefree spirit Alexandra Udinov inspired to be. If there was no war. If her godfather did not point out her parents as traitors, claiming her father selling designs of warship to the enemy. Angie Martinelli made one hell of a great actress, whom would never make a break on Broadway. Not when audition was the codename for assassination and callback was when a follow up cleaning was required.

 

(Angie never got a callback.)

 

* * *

 

Howard Stark’s face became the frequent for filling the first page of the daily newspaper. Sometimes, it was his ally, Captain America. Angie found Peggy staring at the paper more and more lately. Then they talked about war—or Peggy talked and Angie listened. She could not possibly tell her about her own experience, so she made it up by creating analogies.

 

“I had an audition today, uptown,” Angie began.

 

She folded her arms on top of the table and was glad she had taken a seat. Holding Peggy’s gaze while trying not to breathe too deep in the scent of her perfume as she leant forward were making her weak on the knees. She was no fool; she noticed Peggy glancing at her lips.

 

“Took three trains, got two bars into ‘Is You or Is Ain’t You’. They gave me the hook. I guess I ain’t.” She was careful to somber up her smile, as she was supposed to be. “We all got to pay our dues, even if it takes a while. You got talent.”

 

Peggy shied away and Angie chalked it as a win on her part, but she was not quite finished.

 

“It’s just a matter of time before Broadway calls.”

 

“I’m afraid I can’t carry a tune.”

 

“Doesn’t matter when you got legs like yours.”

 

So maybe Angie was being a little flirty, too. But which lady would not like hearing a genuine compliment every once in a while, even when said lady was a secret agent who could possibly kill a man with a fork.

 

* * *

 

The opportunity presented itself a couple of months after their initial meeting. Angie might have read all Margaret Carter’s confidential records she could get her eager paws on, but there was nothing better than the real deal. She had been curious of what Peggy’s reaction would be, whether she was still pinning over the Cap or if she had moved on.

 

Thus one night when Angie happened to man the counter and The Captain America Adventure Program would be playing right about the time Peggy dropped by for her usual night tea, she set the radio for the station and waited. It unveiled just as she had predicted. Peggy chose to sit by the counter so they could have little chat in between her dispersing the plates from the cook to her fellow waitresses. The Englishwoman had just had a couple sips of her tea when the program began.

 

“ _Nein_! You will bow down to the fuehrer.”

 

Angie noted Peggy’s death glare at the radio. She would, too. In fact, she probably would do something malicious to Roxxon Motor Oil and the radio station if her counterpart persona was rendered to a useless triage nurse of the 107th Infantry. She stole glances at Peggy and waited, busying herself with the orders.

 

“Angie, would you mind changing that?”

 

“Oh, you bet.” She changed the station to one playing jazz. So maybe Peggy had not really let go of Steve Rogers yet, she understood. “Arlene French beat me out for that part.” Angie had never met French. She was not even in the audition. Still, she cleared her throat and repeated the part she had just heard. Improvisation was always her biggest forte. Anything to lessen the furrow on Peggy’s brows, even when it meant to make fool of herself. “You lousy krauts are in big trouble once Captain America gets here. It’s better, right?”

 

“Thrillingly realistic.”

 

“You moving?” Angie steered the conversation away from Peggy’s dripping sarcasm.

 

“I...uh, lost my roommate.”

 

Angie chuckled. She knew the experience all too well. “My first place, I lived with this girl from Queens. It was okay for maybe six months, and then, bam!—“ she slammed her hand onto the counter, a tad harder than a meek waitress supposed to, but thankfully nobody noticed, not even Peggy who was too engrossed in her storytelling “—One day she’s engaged.” Her bafflement stayed true despite the time that had passed since. She, who stayed in Moscow during war to relay coded messages while doing job she was not proud of, could not comprehend how and why a woman could just jump into the bandwagon of happily-ever-after with the first man doing as much as taking her to one date, in a blink of an eye. It was absurd. “Next day, she’s married and living in Armonk.”

 

Peggy sighed in agreed annoyance. “You think you know people.”

 

The words nicked Angie closer to the heart than she had expected. Quickly, she turned her attention to the paper. Peggy had some ads circled and she noticed the error in her choice straight away.

 

“’Cozy studio apartment’, that means it’s a broom closet. ‘Convenient to public transportation’, you’ll be living under the Third Avenue el.”

 

“What would you suggest?”

 

“Girl down the hall from me just moved out. Couldn’t hack it, I guess.” Angie crinkled her nose in distaste, having a profound dislike of the whiny kind. “She was always crying to her mother on the hall phone.”

 

“Oh, poor thing.”

 

“Yeah, maybe the first couple times.” Angie had wanted to sock her up the third time she wept over the phone and unintentionally got in her way of sneaking back to her room. “Anyway, it’s over on the 63rd. It’s real safe, lots of great girl. Plus, I’d be your neighbor, so that’s not nothing.” Miriam would kill her, but the only thing she cared about at the moment was hoping that her exuberance had not drove Peggy off. She had come to feel protective of her, aiming to guide her in the art of living a fabricated life without obviously doing so.

 

“It’s a lovely idea, but I’d hate for you to grow tired of me.”

 

There, Peggy had offered her a smooth way out of the mess she attempted to tangle herself in. She ignored it. Miriam would get her head. “You don’t strike to me as the ‘crying on the hall phone’ type, English,” and she had meant it.

 

Something was bothering Peggy. Angie could see it from the pause and the long glance at the obituaries section. She was going to recheck that part later, for now she could only cross her fingers and hope it did not contain any of her last kills—hope that none of her last kills was someone dear to Peggy. It would muck up the friendship she was trying to build with her. Like real bad.

 

“I appreciate it, truly, but, um,” Peggy cleared her throat, enforcing the walls she was hiding behind. Angie pitied her. “I’m actually on my way to see an apartment now.”

 

“At this hour?” Angie furrowed her brows, projecting the correct amount of disbelief and suspicion without being too much or too little. “You sure you’re readin’ the right kind of want ads?”

 

“It comes recommended through a friend.”

 

Peggy’s voice took a higher pitch than usual, she made one lousy liar but Angie was not going to call her out on it. “If you say so,” she said at last, letting the topic drop.

 

* * *

 

Peggy did not get her usual tea the next night. She loitered by the front of the automat, though. Heels clicking on the pavement as she walked back and forth, restless and growing increasingly irritated. Angie was nothing but resilient in her effort. She had armed herself with the clipped ads from that day’s newspaper (bless Miriam for her quickness) and lured Peggy inside with a mock threat. Once the reluctant prey was hooked, Angie made a show by reciting that particular block of ads, complete with the appropriate intonation to give punch for each point. She always had a flare for the dramatic.

 

“That sounds perfect,” Peggy admitted.

 

“That’s because it is.” Angie believed she had delivered a hard bargain; Peggy would be foolish to decline. She still had the highlight of the whole offer tucked under her sleeve, though. “The only thing that could possibly make it better is if you lived next to me. Oops! You would.” Her grin stretched into a toothy one. “3C if you need a cup of sugar.” _Or guns, or daggers, or safe site for dumping bodies_. For a hot second she wondered what kind of a fighter Peggy was. Did she prefer it to be cold and faraway? Or did she like it to be intimate and up close? Her records suggested she had a remarkable marksmanship as well as an impressive hand-to-hand combat skill.

 

“I really shouldn’t, Angie.”

 

“Am I missin’ something here?” She had double-checked. None of those people in the obituaries died on Division’s behest. None of their bloods were on her hands. None of those people had connection to Peggy. “You need a place, this one is great, so...I’m thinking maybe it’s me.”

 

Peggy took a second too long to respond. "I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a very good neighbor.”

 

The rejection stung Angie like when she was denied the a-okay to eliminate Sergei Semak, her own godfather and also the one pointing her father as traitor in front of their government. When Peggy rushed out after a short goodbye, her forced smile changed into a pout. It was unbecoming of her, but she could not help but stare through the door as Peggy drove off with a man into the so-called appointment.

 

* * *

 

Something had happened. Angie could sniff the remains of blood lingered on Peggy. She was wobbling slightly, too. Put more weight on her left leg as they walked. She did not say nothing, let the glee pour and fill whatever wound marring Peggy’s right thigh. She fussed over her attire and coached her for the interview instead. They aced it.

 

Miriam Fry, while perhaps more of a pussycat with very long and sharp claws, was more amendable during the tour she gave for every newcomer. She was still reluctant to house another secret agent—especially one from another agency—even after Angie had begged her to. Her tone stayed clipped, every word picked carefully and repetition was deemed redundant, unless it was to press on the Griffith’s code of conduct. Angie insisted on tagging along and stayed until Miss Fry left them onto their own devices.

 

“Told ya, it ain’t nothing.” Angie plopped onto the bare bed. She got to do something to appease Miriam, bribing her to turn blind eye to Peggy’s past-bedtime activities would require more than a new model for her gun collection. It should wait, though. “We gotta pick your stuff from—where were you lived again?”

 

The question jerked Peggy out her quiet inspection of the room. “Ah, that would be unnecessary, Angie. My whole possessions fit in just a couple of suitcases. I’ll manage.”

 

“Sure,” Angie eventually relented after a long silence. Peggy’s little sigh of relief did not slip her attention. “I have work in an hour.”—which was a total lie since she had taken the whole day off—“My room is down the hall if you need anything. I’ll see you around, English.”

 

Peggy descended the stairs precisely fifteen minutes later, unaware of Angie following her every move like a hawk from this concealed spot in the lobby. When she stepped out of the Griffith, Angie was hot on her heels. One subway ride and a short walk later, Angie believed she had arrived to where Peggy used to live before. She lounged on a small diner—much smaller than the L&L, but with better coffee, she had to admit sourly—until Peggy came back out and hailed a cab, a couple of suitcases and an unhealthy amount of hat boxes filling the trunk.

 

After the cab drove away, Angie jumped into action. She pretended to be looking for a place to rent and was directed to the newly empty room on the third floor. The unsuspecting old woman from across the hall bought the act, jumping into the chance of gossiping about “Poor dear Colleen, to die so young on her bed alone” and mentioned not a single thing of a certain English brunette. Angie’s mind flew back to the obituaries and her soft gasp was not phony this time. Eyes comically wide, she feigned terror, fear of the lingering death and spun a tale of her dead uncle and how his spirit remained in their house. Then she was out of the building within minute.

 

Peggy was long gone, but now Angie had an insight on the distance she was trying so hard to instill between them. Driving people away was a grief, newbie mistake on Peggy’s part. Although Division did provide Angie with a real-Martinelli foster family in Bensonhurst, she preferred to play the part. The rule of the thumb for leading a secret life was one must socialize. As draining as it sounded, the more people she knew on intimate basis meant the more they would readily vouch for her if she were made. From now on, she would be that person who would vouch for Peggy.

 

* * *

 

 _Mister Fancy_ was what she called him in front of Peggy as she slapped the jam a little too hard on her toast. Those back-to-back meetings at the automat did not pull the wool over her eyes. Edwin Jarvis, a married man, and to Angie’s further irritation, was Howard Stark’s loyal butler. Words on the street said that Peggy was allying herself with the nation’s infamous fugitive—not exactly shocking news, judging from their involvement with Captain America during war—and thus was a traitor herself. Angie bought none of the traitor crap.

 

However, as she closely studied Peggy from across the dining table, she felt dread sneaking in her chest and gripped her heart tightly. She would hate to receive Peggy’s name in the kill order one day, and that one day would come faster if Peggy continued to participate in whatever Stark was asking her to.

 

* * *

 

Angie was thankful it was considered normal for her as an Italian descent to be boisterous and meddling. Her faux heritage provided her with quite a lot of pass in different areas. Plus, given that she was Peggy’s best gal pal—at least it was known as such around the Griffith—it was not so head-turning for her to come straight knocking on her door after her shift, still in her uniform and flats.

 

Under the dim light, Angie noticed the flush on Peggy’s cheeks and the way she grabbed the lapels of her robe together. She had caught her in the middle of something, just as she wished for. She continued to rant about her day (because it had truly irritated her), only flicking her eyes once towards the dark lump underneath the bed. Her heels kicked on it as she plopped onto the bed. Whatever Peggy hid inside the bag was definitely too hard to be a human body and too soft to be weapons, so she guessed it was some sort of gears.

 

“How was your day?”

 

Peggy’s body language, with arms crossed by her waist and the way she kept her distance, was screaming dismissal. “Well, fifty cents in tips would have been a considerable improvement.”

 

Angie turned blind eye to the signs. She would not get anything out of Peggy, but it was worth it to try. “I got a bottle of Schnapps and half a rhubarb pie. Let’s see which one makes us sick first.”

 

“Oh, sounds lovely, but I was just about to go to bed.”

 

“It’s eight o’clock, grandma. Come on. Tell me about your crappy day. Maybe it’ll make me feel better.”

 

“I’m really tired. M-maybe some other time.”

 

Peggy had at least looked genuinely guilty. So Angie might have interrupted her in the middle of preparing for a late night adventure. Knowing it did not make the not-so-subtle brush-off sting less, though. Her smile dropped into a frown.

 

“Didn’t mean to disturb you,” Angie said as she unfolded her legs, pouting a little. It was of a petulant child being denied a toy. She smoothed the stupid apron she was still wearing, marching to the door.

 

“No, you didn’t disturb me. I ju—“

 

“No, it’s fine.” She walked past Peggy without sparing a glance, in fear of doing so would melt her resolve. “I know a brush-off when I see it.”

 

“Angie...”

 

She had just reached the doorway when Miriam Fry was leading a blonde girl, possibly the new tenant filling Molly’s old room, through the hallway. Angie gritted her teeth. She was not in the mood for holding casual conversation at the moment.

 

“Oh! Ah... Miss Carter, Miss Martinelli.”

 

Angie kept her response clipped through the introduction and deserted it the moment she got a chance to. Dorothy Underwood of Iowa, pursuing a ballet career. 3F. Very firm handshake equaled to having muscles, Angie brushed it off as something practicing ballet did to a person. Bright wide grin, overenthusiastic. At least she was not a wet blanket like Nellie from 3A and it would wear off within the first month of her stay. It was her responsibility to do deeper digging of every third floor’s new tenant, but if Dottie passed Miriam’s throughout background check then it must be a-okay. Angie filed those scraps of information and first impression for another time. Right now she had Schnapps, half a rhubarb pie, and a burn to nurse.

 

* * *

 

The next night, Peggy came to the automat with dark cloud hanging over her head. Her eyes rimmed red, not unlike the flannel blazer she was wearing. Angie’s well-put front, however, dropped the second Peggy talked about her dead co-worker, eyes glassy with unshed tears and voice wavering ever so slightly.

 

In turn, Angie told her about cousin Ralphie, who was less a cousin and more of a target. She might have facilitated in his unfortunate demise. A little nudge and he came knocking on the newsstand then stumbling onto the street, where a speeding bus hit then dragged his body for a couple hundred feet. It was the third time Angie did not have to stain her hands with her victim's blood, but still, big shock.

 

After clocking out, they walked back to the Griffith with her arm linked with Peggy’s. Miss Fry stared at them for a second too long. Peggy did not get the disapproving look, but Angie understood it all too well. _You are being too close_ , it said, _steer clear of her, it’s dangerous_. Angie did not retrieve her arm back until it was absolutely necessary, Miriam be damned. Peggy took time to change out of her work clothes and Angie did the same. She had just secured her gun, taped underneath her undergarments’ drawer, when Peggy knocked on her door and then it sailed smoothly from there on.

 

It was all about reading between the lines. _They stayed overtime_ meant _the boys had a mission the night before and did not tell me about it_. Typical. _He died due to a fatal heart attack_ translated into _someone assassinated him_. By the time the Schnapps was drown to its last drop, it took very little coaxing to make Peggy stay. They lay side by side on the single bed, with Peggy tucked between Angie and the wall—a feat which she continued to revel in. It clenched her heart to see Peggy being so vulnerable, so willing to drop her usual protectiveness, so _so_ beautiful.

 

Only when Peggy’s breath finally evened out in the depth of slumber that Angie dared herself to tug the blanket up and cover the both of them. Peggy’s skin was a shade lighter than hers, she noted as their bare shoulders touched for a moment. That was the farthest she allowed herself to go. She stayed close enough to share the warmth, but far enough to tempt herself with promises of smooth skin and heady scent of lavender. That night, Angie fell asleep with the promise of doing everything to protect Peggy stamped on her heart.

 

* * *

 

Miriam had tattled to the higher-up—whoever that was—and by early Tuesday, Angie got whispers of an audition she absolutely _must_ follow later that night. Michael intercepted her before she could enter the theatre, startling her enough to reach for the thin pocketknife she kept hidden under her sleeve.

 

“Easy there.” Michael lowered her hand gently, bigger hand wrapped firmly around her wrist.

 

Angie’s eyes narrowed. She was undeniably happy to see her mentor after a long while, but him meeting her in person had caused alarm to blare inside her mind. Something must be gravely wrong for him to come out. She had not thought it was about Peggy—or more precisely, about her rather improper closeness with Peggy that had somehow affected her performance.

 

The conversation was brief, but when Angie walked away, she was mad. She still did on the next morning. Not even performing for Esther, one of her dear regulars, could lift up her mood. Peggy had just arrived, though. Her presence and undivided attention did help a bit. Angie wasted no time to come over her booth.

 

“Your new key.” She held the warmed piece of metal in her hand. She had been playing with it inside her pocket since she arrived at work, she could not wait to see Peggy. “I had to practically sign over my first born to Miriam to get this for you.” Correction: she had guilt-tripped Miriam for it, using what had transpired in her meeting with Michael—no doubt thanks to Miriam and her big mouth—as leverage.

 

“Thank you. I can’t imagine where I dropped mine.” Their fingertips touched and Angie dropped the key onto the table then retrieved her hand quickly. Peggy did not seem to notice and continued, “Angie, that was wonderful,” she said it with a genuine smile.

 

Angie had to look away, refolding her rag to keep herself busy. “Ugh. Tell that to the producers.” She dared to stare back at Peggy in between wiping the table. It was not so hard to do when her hands were occupied. “They said it was the worst audition they’d ever seen.” So she missed the artery and the target did not die instantly and his nosy secretary found them and she had to kill her too. Big deal. They were on their merry way to be fossilized in one of the underway apartment buildings in Manhattan anyway. “You ordering?”

 

“No, I’m waiting for a friend. Angie, you can’t just let one audition get you down.”

 

“How about seven,” Angie deadpanned. Only two out of those seven happened recently, but apparently Division kept neat track of its agents.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, but things will look up.”

 

“I’ve been telling myself that for a year.” Angie stopped pretending to wipe the clean surface of the table. “Time to take the hint... The floodlights are calling, but not for me. My father signed me up for secretary school—“ in _Washington_ , far from a certain English distraction “—I start next week.”

 

“Oh, Angie, no,” Peggy protested without knowing what it was truly about. “You belong on stage.”

 

“If that were true, I’d be there already.”

 

Peggy’s attention was diverted to the door and whatever objection she had in mind was pushed back. Angie turned around and almost scowled when she saw Jarvis coming to their way, but Peggy’s next words placated her.

 

“We’ll talk about this when I get home tonight.”

 

“Nothin’ to say. I’ll let you and your...” she curled her lips in dislike. Jarvis had checked out to be a decent man, but his affiliation with Stark and Peggy might get the English agent killed someday. “’Friend’ talk.” Then she left them with their silly, not-so-secretive chat. They should just sit together in one booth.

 

* * *

 

Angie’s shift ended by noon and she had been back in her room in the Griffith since, wearing out the rug in her room by pacing back and forth while muttering to herself. She plopped down onto her bed, spent, and drifted in and out of sleep for several minutes. Little did she know, it was the calm before the storm.

 

Her silent oath to protect Peggy exercised faster than she would prefer it to be. Way too fast. Angie was roused out of her nap by the rushed, heavy footsteps on the hallway. Miriam’s incessant objection rang along. In second, Angie was up on her feet and had her ear planted on her door. The uninvited party took a turn on the corridor and kicked down a door. She counted at least five people—agents—and possibly armed. Another noise from the outside of her window disturbed her eavesdropping and there Peggy was, squeezing herself to the brick wall while looking like her soul had just got sucked out seconds ago.

 

“Peggy?” Angie glanced down, noting the missing part of the ledge. That explained Peggy’s paleness. “What on earth are you doing?”

 

Before Peggy could answer, the footsteps had moved to her door and someone was knocking at it rather impatiently. “Miss Martinelli!” The door muffled the voice, but it was of a man. “Federal agents. We have some questions for you.”

 

For milliseconds, she almost jumped out of her skin. She had been made. She. Had. Been. Ma—

 

“They are here for me,” Peggy said, breathless.

 

It was all that took Angie to make up her mind. She could let Peggy stay outside—either she fell off and died or the agents located her first. Or she could tell on her whereabouts. As a friend, as someone who cared deeply for the Englishwoman, she did neither. Closing her window, she schooled her expression as not to give away anything while she ran intervention on those agents.

 

“Miss Martinelli.” The agent thumped on her door this time, with his fist, she imagined. “Open up!”

 

“Oh. You don’t look like federal agents.”

 

One of the men marched forward. Angie stared down at his crutch a tad longer than politely deemed to do so. She aimed to make him uncomfortable for breaching into her space. It did not work. Her sassiness did not work for long either. She could knock all of them out, but losing her cover and endangering the rest of Division operatives plus the innocent girls living in the Griffith was decidedly an unfavorable choice. Miriam’s _Miss Carter is not who she appears to be_ made the decision for her. Playing it dumb, then.

 

The vague answers satisfied those fathead male coworkers, at least until the blond one—cute, if Angie was into that sort of thing—went to the windows. On her side, Miriam had been restless. These S.S.R. boys were looking through Angie’s stuff. Only God knew when they would stumble upon something incriminating and then brought the whole Griffith down with her. The timing could not possibly get more perfect than it was. Angie rushed to the rescue, amplifying up her acting to the max.

 

“Uh, but...I think it had something to do with her sick grandmother.” She broke into a sob.

 

As expected, men and their allergic for anything doused in estrogen, the crutch fella grimaced at her. “Oh, gee. Um...” He turned back at his coworker, silently asking for help.

 

The blond was looking just as uncomfortable, if not more. “Please, don’t...do that.”

 

Fat, crocodile tears leaked from the corner of Angie’s eyes. She had done this a lot; she did not need the onion juice anymore. “It’s just that her grandmother is doing poorly,” her voice cracked, “and whenever I think about it, it makes me think about my Nanna, who’s so supportive of my acting career.”

 

A short tale later and Angie was leaning on the blond’s broad chest. If there was anything besides mentioning sad story of mother—or in this case, grandmother—figure that could soften a man’s heart without going under their pants, it was a damsel in distress. It drove them out faster than when they barged in. Miriam squeezed her hands in parting, proudly. Angie locked the door behind her then went to help Peggy in.

 

It was sort of romantic, she supposed, for smuggling Peggy inside. The suspected traitor to the S.S.R., Peggy Carter, with hair mussed by the wind and light sheen of sweat on her fair skin, was a different kind of beautiful. The kind of beautiful Angie wanted to pin against the wall and kiss senseless. She barely managed to control the urge, using the excuse of phoning her ‘family’ to help Peggy get to the Dublin house to vacant the room.

 

Fortunately, most of the tenants were out, either still working or gossiping in the lobby, thus none overheard her short but heated argument with Michael. After a lot of reasoning and some childish whining and begging, she won the battle. Michael had agreed to send Birkhoff and, thank heavens, let her stay in New York for the time being. She would have danced her way back to her room if not for Peggy waiting for her inside.

 

They talked, or more like, they exchanged praises. Peggy was calmer than earlier. When they hugged, Angie grabbed her a little harder, lingered a little longer, breathed a little deeper. This was it. This was goodbye. She did not want it to be a goodbye.

 

“Well...” Angie started after they broke apart. “I look forward to hearing what this is about someday.”

 

“Someday. Take care of yourself.”

 

“You, too, English.”

 

Angie stared at Peggy’s retreating back—shoulders squared, like a soldier ready to face war—until she vanished behind the door. Only then Angie let out the breath she was not aware of holding. _Someday_. She regretted asking already. Peggy had Steve and then Colleen and God-knows-who else. Angie had people like that too. People she cared about, people who made promises and could not fulfill it not because they did not want to. Angie did not wish for Peggy to be one of those people.

 

“Be safe,” she whispered to the now empty room.

 

* * *

 

When that someday came, would Peggy find her? Would Peggy tell her? Would _she_ tell Peggy in return? Or would her fear of reuniting with Peggy under a strict kill order become reality? Those questions haunted Angie since the last she saw her being led by the S.S.R. boys, looking woozy with hands cuffed behind her back.

 

Angie pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind whenever it reared its ugly head. Peggy’s allegedly treason and public capture were not the only problem she was facing. Dorothy Underwood of 3F had fled the Griffith without prior notice in the same day as Peggy and Angie happened to be the one discovering it. The timing, the scratch mark on the bedpost, supported by the S.S.R.’s report of their agents’ latest mission in Russia, made Dottie’s sudden flight too sketchy to be ignored.

 

Division decided not to take any action regarding Dottie Underwood, much to Angie’s dismay. Miriam did get reprimanded for her inattention, but since Dottie’s objective had nothing to do with their agency, they let her go. They let a deathly, highly trained operative of Leviathan to roam on the city of New York. Just like that.

 

Because outer forces had other agencies taking care of, while Division’s main job was to eliminate threat coming from within. It made Angie felt sick to her stomach. Because if— _when_ a kill order for Peggy came, it would be hers. Because she was her gal pal. Because Peggy would smile when they met and would not suspect a thing until Angie pointed a barrel of a gun on her head.

 

On a good day, Angie did not think about it. She did her job—served coffee, being treated as sexual object, went to an audition uptown, kill a man or two. On a bad day, she spent extra time before ending her target’s suffering. Took home some teeth or nails.

 

* * *

 

Time went fast, then. Barely a week later, someone was knocking on her door. Steady and measured, like how all government’s agents seemed to be taught to do. Angie’s blood rushed in her ear. The water draining through her sink was red. She washed her hands faster.

 

“Who’s there?” Her voice took a higher pitch and she flinched at her reflection. No answer came. She dried off her hands, tucked her now-clean dagger behind the pile of fresh towels in the bathroom cabinet, did one last check for any remainder of blood on her person (thank Lord her sweater was deep crimson), then made herself more presentable for a guest. The knocking continued on. “Just a sec!” She walked briskly, jerked the door open, and had her jaw dropped when she saw the person on the other side of it. “Peggy!”

 

“Hello, Angie,” Peggy beamed. “May I come in?”

 

Angie did not let her. Michael kept reminding her to control her impulse, but just this time, he might approve. She went for a hug, yet the contact was not enough. It never was. In a world like theirs where every longing gaze and brush of hands could very well be the last, she took her chances.

 

Angie put her everything as she lunged forward, took Peggy’s cheeks in her hands and kissed her. Not on the cheek—girlfriends kissed on the cheeks and it meant nothing. She did not want Peggy to misunderstand her intention, so she kissed her full on the mouth. She might play her sassy waitress role too good, but she was not blind. She could always pick the rare violets amongst the flowers in the park.

 

To her chagrin, Peggy pulled away almost violently. Angie could hear her own heart breaking, even more after Peggy looked up at her. She was horrified and wiped her lips in a hurry, as if she was disgusted. As if what Angie did disgusted her.

 

“Angie—“

 

“Oh, geez. I’m so sorry. I just...” Angie trailed off. The act that came naturally to her had spectacularly failed her this time. “I’m sorry, Peg.” She hung her head low, tears of shame prickling her eyes.

 

The silence afterwards stretched like a lifetime. Angie had no excuse, except the fact that she was excited to see Peggy, but that could not explain her rather inappropriate greetings. She was considering between slamming the door on Peggy’s face and pretended nothing had transpired in the last minute when she saw Peggy’s feet shuffled. She was coming closer and Angie panicked.

 

“Angie,” Peggy began. One hand grasped Angie’s chin, gently pushing her head up so their eyes met. She was smiling. “There is nothing to be sorry about.” To validate the statement, she leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on Angie’s lips. “I admit you took me by surprise. The last time someone kissed me on this very hallway, they turned out to be a Russian spy whose order was to kill me.”

 

Angie’s breath caught in her throat. She was both—a Russian and a spy—but not a spy who worked for Russia. Not like Dottie. Thankfully, Peggy mistook her reaction as mere surprise and offered a warm kiss on the cheek to assure her.

 

“Everything is alright now, love.”

 

The term of endearment, said in that thick accent, from those wicked red lips, only managed to make Angie feel faint. Peggy being so close was both a blessing and a curse. At least she would be there to catch her, because her knees had become so weak all of a sudden. The woman in question appeared to be clueless on how big her presence was affecting Angie.

 

“It ain’t,” she murmured, head finally leaning on the crook of Peggy’s neck. “Miss Fry kicked you out.” The decision was final. After the very close brush with S.S.R., she could not do anything to change Miriam’s mind.

 

“About that particular matter,” Peggy began, one hand running on Angie’s back and she sighed in response. “I believe I have a solution.”

 

* * *

 

After the bomb near the New York Bell company and no single news of Peggy, Angie itched to look for her by herself. She knew some people on the street she could rough up for information, but unfortunately a dirty politician required her attention first. Then when Peggy came back to the Griffith, she could not say no to the offer of moving in with her. It was a lapse in judgment. A moment of weakness, she later explained to Sarah the slut, her handler, through the phone in one of Howard Stark’s mansion’s bedrooms.

 

Their new living arrangement had proven to be quite a hassle—even with her acquired skill of sneaking out of the Griffith while avoiding everyone else’s prying gaze—but nothing Angie could not tackle and fold herself into.

 

Peggy’s in-advance apologies for her work keeping and pulling her away at ungodly hours and her pleas for Angie to not wait and worry for her were answered by an assuring smile and kiss. She was no Betty Carver and Peggy was no Captain America. Angie Martinelli was not going to sit and worry that Peggy got killed in action, like those gals whose fellas went to war. The things she would worry about were getting rid of the stench of blood and being home before Peggy did.

 


End file.
